Death of Communication
by OhMyGoshsickles
Summary: In which Francis dreams of Arthur, and Arthur is quite disgruntled.


France sleeps, and while he does he dreams for his entire nation.

He never talks of these dreams with the other countries- partly because he's not sure if he's the only one, and partly because he isn't sure who to talk to. It isn't necessary to mention them to anybody anyway, because he enjoys them. They make him feel closer to his people.

...

He is a little boy, staring at a fresh loaf of bread through a window and wanting and wanting and _wanting._ He is clothed warmly, and no hunger pains his stomach, but he can't help but be filled with greed. He is the middle child out of five boys, and his Mere is a doctor and his Pere is a lawyer, and even though they are wealthy and loved he can't help but want things all the time because no one ever seems to want anything to do with him.

The lady at the counter of the Boulangerie stares at him suspiciously through the glass and he smiles at her, showing off his white teeth like he's learned to do. The lady inspects him further, and seeing his nice clothes and clean face she deems him harmless and smiles back. He can't help but snicker; he doesn't look poor and so she will ignore him. Adults are so dumb, he thinks, always judging by appearances and categorizing people. That's what his Mere and Pere do, and they're dumb too. Not like him. He's smarter than all of them- especially the lady selling baguettes. With another grin, he slips inside the door and reaches for a loaf of bread-

...

She is a newly wed bride, and this is the third night she's spent held in her lover's arms with the official title of 'Madame Fortescue'. She is not lying to herself when she thinks that she is the happiest she has ever been. Her husband- oh how it thrills her to say that word!- Zacharie, is breathing softly into her hair, and she can tell that he's just dozed off because his breathing patterns have become familiar to her. She doesn't want to wake him up because she knows that he doesn't sleep enough and works too hard, but when she settles a little more into the bed the springs creak and his chocolate colored eyes flutter open to meet hers.

He doesn't say anything- still caught up in the dregs of sleep- but he pulls her closer to him. She nuzzles against his neck. Their apartment is cold, but the blankets that pool around them generally aren't put to much use; Zacharie is just so warm, even when he's sleeping, and she secretly loves that fact that in that moment she is his and his alone. She presses a kiss against his throat, and feels more than hears the contented little noise that he hums. Softly, sweetly, he takes his hand and runs it along the bare skin of her back-

...

He is an old man sitting in a chair by a hospital bed, holding his wife's hand. Her eyes are closed, and her fingers- which had once been nubile and strong and composed the music that had made him fall in love with her- are now stiff and frail. Her breathing is just barely audible, and he keeps holding his breath and straining his ears just to hear it. He can't hear much with his old ears anyway, and thinking about that reminds him of the time when they were both young and his wife had laughed and teased and said, "Even when all your hair falls out and you're not handsome anymore, I'll still love you." And he had replied snarkily, "The instant you lose your looks we're divorcing and I'm going to move to America and marry a 20 year-old supermodel." Something about that makes his heart squeeze painfully, and so he mentally chants, _"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it- I love you- I'll never leave you- stay with me."_

His wife does not react in any visible way and he makes a horrid sounding gasping noise as he starts to cry. He thinks that it doesn't really sound like him, because he is not this old body that shackles him, he is a man that loves his wife and will cry over her even though a long time ago they had promised not to be sad when one of them passed on. They were old and had lived like they had wanted too, and really it was not goodbye forever, just goodbye for now.

Still, he cannot help it. He clutches his wife hand and cries like he had when-

...

She is a just a toddler- only 2 years old- and she is sitting on the living room carpet. The ancient family house cat, Jacquenette, is swishing her tail in front of her, and like most little girls would, she grabs it and pulls.

The cat is not happy with this.

At Jacquenette's cry of distress and her daughters cry of glee, her Maman dashes from the kitchen and quickly scoops her up before the irate feline decides to retaliate. "Don't mess with Jacquenette," her Maman scolds, "Her poor heart can't take it."

Of course the little two year old doesn't take in much but her Maman's silly expression and so she laughs.

At once, her Maman's face softens. "What am I going to do with you?" She coos, and the little girl laughs again. "You just laugh in the face of everything; the happiest child in the world."

The little girl wraps her hands around her Maman's neck and whispers something that suspiciously sounds like, "I love you."

"I love you too, _ma bichette_." Her Maman takes a long peaceful breath as she cradles her child against her chest, "More than all the stars in the sky."

...

At this point France rolls over in his bed and starts to dream for himself. Even nations dream- they have too. France thinks that if he always dreamed about the lives of his people then he would lose it; the stories are never finished, after all, and what's more irritating than an unsatisfying ending? When he dreams he can stay in his own a head- at least for a little while.

...

There is a storm going on, and France is sitting on the beach. He's not sure if its one of his beaches or not, but he's leaning towards no, because he doesn't recognize it and the water is a murky green. It is raining quite hard, but he doesn't really mind because he doesn't really notice it.

He is alone.

And then he isn't.

England is floating in the surf- staring at the sky with despondent eyes- and he seems to be oblivious to the fact that he may be in danger; the waves are choppy and violent around him, but even when one topples over him he simply floats back up to the surface. He looks like a pale island, floating like that, and France thinks that that seems appropriate.

He watches, amused for a while. England is being very strange, and because France isn't aware he is dreaming, it seems all the more comical. Eventually the waves kick up even more and so France finds himself shouting playfully, "'Allo, _Angleterre_! Get out of there before you do me a big favor and kill yourself!"

England does not react in anyway besides being dragged down once more.

France frowns, "_Angleterre_! _Angleterre_! Come on, _rosbif_, I know you can hear me!"

The howling winds pick up sand and toss it around him haphazardly, and he finds himself rising to avoid getting it in his eyes. The storm tugs at his hair like a wild thing grappling for purchase, and the rain, which had originally seemed something unremarkable, has plastered his clothes to his body and caused his hands to go numb.

All of a sudden this dream isn't so amusing anymore.

"_Angleterre_!"

The waves rise.

"_Angleterre_!"

The waves crash.

"_Angleterre_!"

England does not emerge.

"England!" A pause. "…Arthur! Arthur!"

A blond head and two ferocious green eyes splutter to the surface- France breaths a sigh of relief.

"Don't-"The tide sucks him under and then spits him out, "Don't call me that, frog!"

"_Mon Dieu_! As if that matters! Get out of there right now, you idiot!"

Arthur flails against the current, "Don't you dare talk to me like you know me, you bloody git!"

"That's not important! Get out of the water!"

"Don't try to be friendly-"

"You're going to drown-"

"With me after all these years-"

"If you don't get out-"

"You think that after all we've been through-"

"You're going to die!"

"We could still be friends?"

"_Get out of the water before I go in there and pull you out!_"

"_I don't need your help!_"

"Augh!" France can't help but grind his teeth in frustration; Arthur is drowning. He is stuck in a riptide, and he refuses France's help.

If this were reality, France would have dived in long ago, Arthur's pride be damned. But because France is dreaming he finds himself stuck in place by the anger in the British mans voice. And that's not very fair because France is angry too, damn it; Angry that there is a wall of hostility between them that neither of them seems to ever have the courage or energy to leap across. Angry that Arthur doesn't have the strength to ask for help and that he him self does not have the strength to help him without being asked.

"Listen to me now you stubborn fool, if you do not listen to me you will die!" France cries to the wind; it doesn't seem to reach the man in front of him.

"Let me alone!"

"You're killing yourself!"

Arthur gargles, chokes, retches, "It's none of your business, you have nothing to do with me!"

"I have everything to do with you!" He snaps, and at some other time Arthur might have pinked at the double entendre in his words- instead his eyes catch on to France's and hold.

Those stubborn eyes.

"I hate you." He says.

He drowns.

...

Francis awakes with a jolt and before he knows it he is across the room and has the phone in his hand. He dials Arthur's number and even though he isn't entirely conscious he is garbling away at the man's answering machine.

"_Bonjour_, _Angelterre_, how are you? I assume you're sleeping, or…" He frowns briefly before continuing, "Well actually I don't know what time it is there. What time is it here?" He laughs, "Anyway, not only was I calling to bother you, I also was calling to tell you something serious." The smile slips off his face for a second, "I just wanted to let you know, if you ever need anything and it's important, I can help you, so don't hesitate to ask." He holds the moment for a second longer before laughing again, "Or something like that, _non_? Alright, _adieu_, _rosbif_; dream of fairies or unicorns or whatever it is you're always talking about. _Bonne nuit_!"

And just like that Francis is hanging up and is back in his bed like nothing has happened.

Unlike most people, who would have been embarrassed and ashamed had they just left a long rambling message on the voice mail of his begrudging friend/vengeful nemesis/oh god who knew at this point, showing what sounded like concern, France felt a bit smug and self-satisfied. It was late. He was tired. He was France; in the end he had both bothered Arthur and made himself feel better; what was wrong with that? Nothing, he decided, absolutely nothing.

He buried his face in his pillow and slumbered once more.

...

England was perplexed.

The message on his answering machine had left him so.

He had, in fact, forced himself to replay it a couple of times until he could finally understand the clipped French and strangely accented English; then he had to play it a couple more times to truly understand the meaning of the words. Once he had, he came to what felt like a solid conclusion.

France had been drinking again.

Why else would he have called at an ungodly hour to both be unnervingly brash and irritatingly vague? Why else chatter on about helping him? Help _him_? _Arthur_? He couldn't have been in his right mind.

Still…

England tried to clamp down on the childish urge to kick his bedside table. Instead he bit his lip and glowered out the window. It was still just dawn- he had only awoken because of the sound of the Frenchmen's voice as it filtered through the machine and interrupted his dreams.

How stupid.

How bloody irritating.

England stomped over to his phone once again and stared it down the same way a man heading to the guillotines stared down the wretched instrument itself. "I should call him." He said aloud, "I should call him and raise hell and get it in his fat head that you shouldn't call people whenever you feel like it to prattle on about nothing and wake them up. I should call him and do that."

He turned and went back to bed.

After all, calling France would be like losing; it would be like he was letting him know that he was getting to him, and there was no sense in that.

At least, that's what England told himself.

He curled up in his blankets and dreamt of fine wine, cold trenches, and French smiles.

* * *

><p><em>I may or may not have lifted that title off a song. Okay I totally did. It's by Company of Thieves, and I enjoy it very much. <em>

_On a more related post this might have a part two if I ever get around to it. And can someone teach me how to work livejournal because God, I am the dumb._

_I hope you enjoyed!_

-OhMyGoshisickels


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